‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition.
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