He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. She found herself struggling with a storm of tears. Gerald’s breath caught. As to his mother, I've no pity for her. And yet, as she rose slowly to her feet and stood looking at him with outstretched hands, a strange mixture of expressions shining in her wonderful eyes, he realized in some measure the strength of her determination, felt the utter impotence of anything which he could say to her. Mind you don't stir till supper's over.
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