For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. You may well say it's impossible! His Majesty's jail of Newgate is admirably guarded, I must say. “I should kill you.
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