" "Here's a pocket-book full of notes, and a heavy bag of gold," said Blueskin, examining the articles on the floor. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. What need had she of Gerald, or anyone? Yet, if he was here, would he not make some foolish game with her and make her laugh? Instead of behaving in this fashion so stupide, and crying, crying, crying. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. We leave this room together.
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