‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. The boy was coming around. The girl’s gaze met his in interested inquiry. By this time, the procession had reached the west end of the wall of St.
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