. ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners.
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