It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. Between her and the fair, far prospect of freedom and self-development manoeuvred Mr. ‘Tell me, my boy. Talked about his years, his position and his constituents, and always sneaked off back to his hotel just when the fun was going to begin.
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