Brendon and I returned from the ‘Unusual,’ and found him lying in my room shot through the lungs. I daresay that is one of the names of the nuns in your convent. ’ *** It must have been fate, Gerald decided, near an hour later, staring intently at the closed French windows on the raised alcove that led out to the terrace. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. What he there noticed occasioned a marked change in his demeanour. But I trusted to that ring of yours.
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