‘Because,’ said Lady Bicknacre in the confidential manner of all matrons when passing on a tidbit of scandal, ‘Nicholas married against his father’s wishes and ran away. Please sit down, Miss —dear me, I haven’t asked you your name yet. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. That is why I ask you. She disengaged her hands and stood up. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free.
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