Each wing had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome, surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. Gerald’s chest tightened. You’re mine. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. ‘She wants you.
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