"A man!" "At your service, my dear," replied the jailer. Gerald looked at it, then at her face. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. “The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. Then she spoke, with a carelessness he instantly suspected. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. And they had an idea of what men were like behind all their nicety. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned.
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