She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. Eight per cent. “We have,” he said, “to be the utmost friends. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged.
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