Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. "It is droll," he said. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men.
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