Her back stiffened. "How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this.
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