The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. "He wouldn't hurt a rabbit. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. “He’s got almost to like it.
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