’ Speeding down the two flights of stairs, Gerald mentally thanked God that it was the practice of himself and Roding—in case of emergency, of which this was a prime example—to stable their horses at the posting inns all the way to London. ‘Be quiet, man,’ snapped Hilary, watching the Frenchman go by with the lad after him. Turning now, and running down the terrace. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. He's worth a dozen of you. “Cheveney!” she repeated. .
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