He’d borne mention of the woman’s name. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. " The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. ‘You would like? And do you imagine that I will tell you?’ ‘Won’t you?’ ‘No, a thousand times.
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