Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. And now you know. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably.
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