‘That’s wicked, that is. Please don’t tell anyone, mister. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. By your father, Sir Montacute Trenchard's will, you are aware,—and, therefore, I need not repeat it, except for the special purpose I have in view,—you are aware, I say, that, by this will, in case your sister Aliva, died without issue, or, on the death of such issue, the property reverts to Constance and her issue. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. "He's audacity enough for anything.
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