The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. She might even forgive him. " "On the contrary," rejoined Smith, looking askance at his companion, "I happen to know you're in the right. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. “Time for my Patience,” she said. I'll tell you what. ’ Gerald stood back, and watched her cross the room to the closed French doors.
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