‘He lacked moral fibre, did Nicholas. Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. Her pa was only the smithy. Even our coarseness. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. ‘Can’t see a thing. God bless you, anyhow!" she added, with a spontaneity which surprised Sister Angelina into uttering an individual gasp. It had not tasted good since 1350. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her.
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