“You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise.
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