The next moment Rupert was beating the hell out of the horse, “Poor Satan,” murmured Helen. Morning glory spread in a sapphire haze over the tennis court wire, vying with the sky in blueness. It was no good; he was powerless to save her. Kevin looked pointedly at the half-full glass, still with unmelted ice cubes.
”“Exactly,” said Rupert. “Fucking imbecile,” said Rupert. He felt a wave of horror and loathing. Both of them felt it bad form to mention Tory or Rupert.
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