’ ‘As a matter of fact, it isn’t,’ conceded Gerald. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. She had a vision of policemen, reproving magistrates, a crowded court, public disgrace. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. ” “I don’t have power over men’s fates.
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