This is my last week at the ‘Unusual,’ you know. O'Higgins returned to town and made a night of it, nothing very wild, nothing very desperate. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. Not so bad. You sent back my Christmas checks. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. ’ ‘I’m coming to that. Would to God I had. Suddenly she understood. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. Given time and the right environment, and he would outgrow these defects. .
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