I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. I’m not Gerald, remember. The boy she had loved was gone. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. "The rebuke is just," said the carpenter; "at the same time, I'm not sorry to find you're a friend to fair play, which, as you seem to know, is a jewel.
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