It was eleven o'clock. "Come Bess,—no whimpering. "Be still!" "Oh, come along! I've just got to have my muck bath. There will be no avoiding it. She turned with an effort. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. It goes to my heart to disappoint you, but this thing must not be. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath.
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