" "On no account," rejoined Wood peremptorily. ‘Eh bien, does that mean that you will do it again?’ ‘Not if I can help it,’ Gerald uttered, alarmed. The name of his father's murderer is also known to me. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands.
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