"Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. “Are you serious?” “You know very well that I should never joke on such a subject. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. It was nothing like the big church wedding she wanted, but nothing could shame her greater than to have a child out of wedlock. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger.
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