Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. Lady Palsworthy was the widow of a knight who had won his spurs in the wholesale coal trade, she was of good seventeenth-century attorney blood, a county family, and distantly related to Aunt Mollie’s deceased curate. Like carpenter, like chips. “As things are at present,” she said, “it is true. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. "I don't know," she answered vaguely. “I always get off here and lean over that rail for a bit. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. It’s all nonsense. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. Every one else does. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself.
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