’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic. The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. He shall expiate his offences on the gibbet.
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