‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. Cursing under his breath, Gerald moved swiftly across and dragged her away. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so.
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