"Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. I guess they were bad all the time. In one grave, mind. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us.
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