‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. "You've perjured yourself. ’ ‘What?’ Appalled, Gerald could only gaze at her. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. She started forward. .
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