‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. ’ But the nun’s eyes had caught Gerald behind and she took instant umbrage. Such freedoms from such people were not to be endured. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year.
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