” She looked around the apartment again. “You are late,” she murmured. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. And were you to load me with thrice the weight of iron you have ordered you should not prevent my escaping a third time.
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