“Oh, that. ‘No need to shake in your boots,’ Gerald said soothingly. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. The servants had left the room. He appeared to be a stranger to the prisoner, and the sole motive of his visit, curiosity. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. ” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. ’ Relaxing back, Gerald folded his arms. Daughters were not like sons.
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