The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. The future? He dared not speculate upon that. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. ’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Gerald said calmly, sipping at his burgundy. “That’s.
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