"You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. If so, do not hesitate to tell me. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. Enchanted. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. What need had she of Gerald, or anyone? Yet, if he was here, would he not make some foolish game with her and make her laugh? Instead of behaving in this fashion so stupide, and crying, crying, crying. The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination. "No; we never had one; at least, I never saw it.
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