" "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Gerald watched her perambulations in silence, his heart wrung. Hugging them, they crept stealthily around the house, Major Alderley leading, and wasting—so his captain acidly commented—a deal of time checking the windows and doors. ‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. Missy looked like a troll with lipstick on.
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