It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels. ‘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. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. It felt too good. That is why I came to London.
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