There was the motor accident, too. “Thank you,” she said coolly. If only this child were his: what good times they would have together! The thought passed on, but it left a little ache in his heart. It may be well, therefore, before proceeding farther, to describe it more minutely. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright. She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. Then a third secretarial opening occurred and renewed her hopes again: a position as amanuensis—with which some of the lighter duties of a nurse were combined— to an infirm gentleman of means living at Twickenham, and engaged upon a great literary research to prove that the “Faery Queen” was really a treatise upon molecular chemistry written in a peculiar and picturesquely handled cipher.
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