’ ‘His daughter, ma’am?’ Gerald asked. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless.
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