Hill closed his eyes. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. "What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She is Bohemian to the fingertips. K-kimble, sir,’ stammered the lad. ‘That—that—why do you speak of him?’ ‘Because I feel you ought to know,’ Gerald said calmly, but rising and watching her closely, ‘that all your trouble may be in vain.
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