"A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. ’ ‘Ah, so you did come here to find someone,’ Gerald responded eagerly. It was not a hard face, but it was resolute. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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