“Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. You seemed complete—without that. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. I am no one, Gérard. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. Very romantic and all that. “Child!” he cried. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally.
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