The carpenter trembled; for he perceived Rowland's gaze fixed first upon the infant, and then on himself. ’ Fire enveloped Charvill’s mind and he brought up his cane, pointed like a musket. “It was inevitable,” he declared. He was astonished. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. She hit the villain with it. They had not so far been of much personal interest to Gerald, but tonight was different. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. They are not your children, they never were.
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