Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. Let us be gone. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. CHAPTER XXVII. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. But I have not done so, and will not. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. . How she hated talking of the man who was responsible for her being brought into the world.
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