"What has happened?" asked Sister Prudence. "Jack Sheppard's mother," answered the little girl, dejectedly; "she has brought a basket of eggs from Willesden, and some flowers for you. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. Gerald looked at it, then at her face. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. Presently she woke up to the fact that there was a considerable group of interests called being in love and getting married, with certain attractive and amusing subsidiary developments, such as flirtation and “being interested” in people of the opposite sex. “You must not think of me as one.
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