‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. ’ ‘What for?’ asked Gerald, half laughing, as he put his hand in his pocket and brought out his elegant pistol. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. "A little, Sir," replied the executioner, with a grim smile.
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