“Poor old daddy! I wonder if he’ll spend much on the fatted calf?. ” “And who made the arrangements for you, and sent you there?” Courtlaw asked. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister.
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