“I can get very angry. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Paris, romantizmle birlikte artık güzel kokan bir şehir haline geldi. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. Well might she do so, Gerald thought in irritation.
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