Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror. As he stood upon the bridge, he held down the light, and looked into the profound abyss. ‘The wretch said nothing to anyone. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. ’ Gerald gazed at her without expression. That would not help her.
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