" "Lord bless us! you alarm me. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. " The words were scarcely pronounced, when Rowland disappeared. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. He grabbed her legs and threw the covers from the bed. Parbleu, but what grandfathers I have!’ It was stalemate, Gerald thought, irrepressible amusement leaping into his chest. The next door neighbor's dog, chained outside, let out a single bark, but was silent as soon as she turned in that direction, instinctively afraid. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. A faint anticipation of triumph showed in his manner and a subdued excitement. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun.
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