"Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. “It would have been rash and unwise,” she said at the end of a meditation. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. Tender with the sick, firm with the strong, fearless, with a body that had the resistance of iron, there was nothing of the hypocrite in him. Perhaps I'd better open it now. ‘I just don’t understand you, Gerald.
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