‘I am saying so,’ protested Gerald mildly. ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. The fashions of the day have become antiquated. .
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