‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. ‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. ’ ‘You are perfectly correct,’ agreed Gerald at once. He's worth a dozen of you. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. Ralph. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners.
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