Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. He looked no longer at his wife. Even the love of a mother does not sway him. Sheppard, distractedly. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Wood. Prison was beastly.
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