“What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. She thought she had hidden well from him. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. It's precisely the same thing to me to bid my janizaries cut Thames Darrell's throat, as to order Jack Sheppard's execution. It was nothing like the big church wedding she wanted, but nothing could shame her greater than to have a child out of wedlock.
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