“My heart, my dove, I only want to heal you. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. The door to the library burst open. ‘Now let’s have it. ‘Precisely,’ agreed Gerald. “The wrappered life-discipline! One comes to that at last. "She is here," cried Jack, darting forward. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Wood was dressed with more than ordinary care, and in more than ordinary finery. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. You’ve got me.
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