“It isn’t a joke,” she said. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. "Jack!" Her son averted his gaze.
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