Gerald’s chest tightened. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. ” He paced the room for a minute or two restlessly. You do not know him.
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