‘But you know everything now,’ protested Hilary, keeping pace as Gerald took the stairs two at a time. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. On the fifth day he had ventured speech with her.
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