'You poor, maudlin, sentimental, doddering chunk of imbecility,'
it said; 'are there no limits to your insanity? After all I said
to you just now, are you deliberately going to start the old
idiocy all over again?'
'She's so beautiful!' pleaded Mr Pickering. 'Look at her eyes!'
'Ass! Don't you remember what I said about beauty?'
'Yes, I know, but--'
'She's as hard as nails.'
'I'm sure you're wrong.'
'I'm not wrong.'
'But she loves me.'
'Forget it!'
Claire jogged his shoulders.
'Dudley, dear, what are you sitting there dreaming for? Where did
you put the ring?'
Mr Pickering fumbled for it, located it, produced it. Claire
examined it fondly.
'Did she throw it at him and nearly break his heart!' she said.
'Bolt!' urged Subconscious Self. 'Fly! Go to Japan!'
Mr Pickering did not go to Japan. He was staring worshippingly at
Claire. With rapturous gaze he noted the grey glory of her eyes,
the delicate curve of her cheek, the grace of her neck. He had no
time to listen to pessimistic warnings from any Gloomy Gus of a
Subconscious Self. He was ashamed that he had ever even for a
moment allowed himself to be persuaded that Claire was not all
that was perfect. No more doubts and hesitations for Dudley
Pickering. He was under the influence.
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