‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. You're a queer lad. I was Annabel the rake, ‘Alcide’ of the music halls.
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