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“I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. ‘Jacques, you have been very much my friend. But to confess about Gerald— no, a thousand times. You are a great deal more like what I was a few months ago than I am now. “Stop! Don’t put your face there. Unless he has dealings with the devil, he could never have done this alone.
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