"Constance—or, rather, Mrs. The sound of her flying feet brought Gerald leaping for the door. "Noblemen. You love Ennison. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.
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