She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. Hilary started after her, but Gerald stopped him. "Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. You don't notice the heat; but it is always there, pressing down. ” “Not yet. " "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet.
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