‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. He seemed too noisy. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Never did I need a rescue so much. ” “You can’t be killed?” He asked.
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