” Lucy replied sadly. "The shoulder-clappers!" added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments for her own petticoats. There is only Gerald to see me, after all. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct.
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