Gerald stood quite still for a moment or two, listening intently. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. The man or woman who did something for nothing always excited his suspicions; they were playing some kind of a game. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island.
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