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She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that.
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