‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. “You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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