The parlour was cluttered but cosy. This was just what he needed. Loneliness. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders.
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