Winter came at the manor. ‘Pitiful. When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. Suppose her father turned her out of doors! She did not care, she meant to go. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious.
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