She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. It did not take a mind reader to glean that she had suddenly gained the boy’s obsessive attention. He was a man tout à fait capable, this Gerald. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. But I do hope, Vee, I do hope—this is the end of these adventures.
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