What he intended to do with it is of little consequence now. “Dear husband,” she murmured. Gerald smiled and excused himself with the Poussaint girl, whose mouth pinched together as she threw a dagger glance at the voluptuous Madame Valade. It was the last thing she felt like drinking. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. " "Confidentially, I'm assured that he has another. Do help me, Lady Ferringhall.
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