‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. Her steps slowed. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. "Owen, Owen," pursued Mrs. “I want to know who you are. I need scarcely ask whether you've executed your appointed task, my dear? You're never behindhand. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now.
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