‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. “I——” The door opened, and the doctor entered softly. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt.
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