‘In that case, he is probably already dead, and you have nothing to worry about. Your life is like a funeral March. Sharples," replied Quilt; "lock 'em up. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. ‘But―but how can he know?’ His soldier’s instinct overtook Gerald and he dropped all his insouciance in a bang, becoming brisk. Speedily recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, "You are mistaken, Sir. Her eyes were lit with mirth, the corners of her mouth quivered. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair.
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