Disappointment flickered in Gerald’s chest, and he did not hesitate to speak his mind, unable to help a reproachful note. "Ay. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. A drunken idea, Ah Cum had called it. White assented. She could not see what occurred, though she guessed it; but she saw Jonathan's devilish triumphing glance, and read in it,—"Your son has committed a robbery—here—in these holy walls—he is mine—mine for ever!" She uttered a loud scream, and fainted. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. But what a monster was this Emile. Small blame to her.
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