‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. "Go on. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. " "Why, what'll you do?" demanded the turnkey. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. The other must call a coach as quickly as he can. Last week. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily.
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