’ To Gerald’s relief, the entrance of the butler interrupted them, relieving him of the necessity to explain himself. "Curse you! Where are the bailiffs? Rot you! have you lost your tongue? Devil seize you! you could bawl loud enough a moment ago!" "Silence, Blueskin!" interposed an authoritative voice, immediately behind the ruffian. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. She traced him by his scent. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. He will tell you confidentially that he simply hates the place.
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