" Lady Trafford sighed deeply. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have. ’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her. Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. In this way, they reached Holborn Bridge. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. Monroe would go to work and Mrs.
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