‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. We'll celebrate that check, and let the rest of the world go hang. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful.
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