“Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said gently, “I am afraid that some fresh trouble has come to you. Die, indeed! We’re going to do work; we’re going to unfold about each other; we’re going to have children. “All’s well that ends well,” he said; “and the less one says about things the better. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. ” “But how?” “I poured him out some port wine, and I said—let me see—oh, ‘You are going to be a grandfather!’” “Yes.
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