‘She wouldn’t tell me. “That was a moment of madness,” she said. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. ’ Madame Valade reseated herself, and Gerald set himself to flatter her into relaxation again. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise.
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