“How old are you?” “Sixteen. She remained for a few moments standing as though listening to his retreating footsteps. John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be. ‘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. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. Her sister’s words were true. .
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