So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. “Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips. That’s how things are; that’s the order of the world. These galleries were separated in the middle by iron grates. Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself.
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