But this I cannot do. ‘What are you going to do now, Gerald?’ He sipped his wine and shrugged. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. “You’ve been sneaking out just as often as Mary Lucia. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me.
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