Gerald’s task was to stop him from doing so. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. “How dare you? You are trying to kidnap my babies!” Clotilde demanded. The Procession to Tyburn 462 XXXII. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection.
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