‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. She felt pride sashay into her thoughts. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. I don’t quite know why. . Wood in very characteristic attitudes, occupied a prominent place on the walls. “You underestimate your own sickness, and the ill humors that struck you may strike again. You must know that. .
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