"And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. Absolutely. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct. "But, take my advice, and keep out of Sir Rowland's way, or you'll get the poor lady into trouble as well as me.
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