” “All these things,” he muttered bitterly, “this desperate resolve to take your life into your own hands, your unnatural craving for independence, would never trouble you for a moment—if you really cared. ‘Bête!’ Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. Drawing the pay of life and then not living. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. ’ He sighed. Indeed I must. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. ’ Gerald dropped down to join her just as her hand came up, clutching the handle.
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