So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Very likely you will disapprove highly of what I have done—I wonder? You may, perhaps, think I have done it just in a fit of childish petulance because my father locked me in when I wanted to go to a ball of which he did not approve. Jack instantly started to his feet, and the man, alarmed at his appearance, ran off to a neighbouring house. I will not be persecuted in this way by you. I am no one, Gérard.
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