He was not, in truth, much of a ladies’ man. "No, Sir Rowland," replied the attendant, "as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself. “Serves you right if I’d cracked your skull. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. ‘Bête!’ Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. Lives by his wits and gambling.
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