’ ‘What?’ gasped Gerald, shocked. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. I will confide it to Father Spencer, who will acquaint you with it when I am no more. Marina doted over her pregnant daughter, adorned in fine brocades, reassuring her that it was certain to be a either a baby boy or a girl of such great beauty she would eclipse them both. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. ‘Oh, peste.
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