"A man!" "At your service, my dear," replied the jailer. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Gerald grinned. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. " "Here he is!" cried Ireton, as the knocking was heard without. Yes, there was someone there.
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