’ ‘Damn you, I should have beaten you,’ Gerald swore, holding fast to his corner of the little square of linen. His hands came up, his face broke apart. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. She aimed directly at Rhea’s head. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you.
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