If you know her for the vicious, scheming wretch that she is, why in God’s name—?’ ‘She’s not a vicious, scheming wretch,’ Gerald said calmly. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. Was not Gerald altogether on her side? He was, even though he played games like an imbecile, a person tout à fait sympathique as she had discovered at the outset. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. He had been on the point of leaving the restaurant. See the new litter of Mrs. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. She had fallen asleep.
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