Wood," urged Jack. "Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Taking a firm grasp of his pistol, Gerald eased back, let go the handle of the door, and at the same instant, swung his booted foot. ‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one.
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