Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. They will guess that I am English. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun. At second hand it would be unendurable. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me.
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