David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. ’ ‘It’s too late for that,’ Gerald told her evenly. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. I’d rather not go,” she added. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child.
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