—Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sex. Nor my grandfathers both. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. It is really cheap, you know.
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