“Something. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. "As I said before, I have little reliance upon professions of gratitude. Life seemed a very brave and glorious enterprise to Ann Veronica that day. Them young prigs is all alike. I might as well try to build a ladder to heaven. And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time.
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