‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham. It is not you who runs the risk of going dinnerless to-morrow. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. Take a room!” “I say!” said Constance. T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. .
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