After Gwen!” “I sent a telegram. "If this document is correct," continued Wood, "and I am persuaded it is so,— you are as unfortunate as wicked. Anyhow, it were me as got you down to the wetnurse. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. Her mouth dry, she made her feet walk on, not daring to utter a word. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. Her disapproval was obvious enough. "Sir Rowland is your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face.
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