“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Stanley and his sister into a taxicab, and had waved an amiable farewell from the pavement steps. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. ’ Mrs Prudence Sindlesham, a widow of several years’ standing, so she told Gerald, was a scarecrow of a female, long and lank of limb in a figure that had once been willowy. For all that, it is folly.
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