He realized that he was committed to the path across the fields, an uninteresting walk at the best of times. "Who took it thence?" "Thames Darrell; the boy at your side. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. Good-bye. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company.
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