“It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. If I’d meant it, my girl, you’d be dead meat. ‘She won’t. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently.
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