Luck. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Instead of passing on, as Jack expected, these persons stopped opposite the cage, when one of them, as he judged from the sound, for he did not dare to look out of his hiding place, dismounted.
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