” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. Perhaps that other boy who visited you backstage at the concert. In his way he was critical. Well, I don’t think that’s fair. He did not speak for a moment. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. ” She muttered some unlady-like comment upon herself under her breath and engaged in secret additions.
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