Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. ’ Gerald smiled. It'll be turning over to-morrow.
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