She stepped backwards. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. Do I blow off the head of a man with whom I am in love?’ ‘That,’ said Gerald, disengaging his hand and at last drawing her into his arms, ‘deserves a reward. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person.
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