‘I live in Kent. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. Though Gerald must suppose it was inevitable she should eventually come here. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. ’ The possibility was indeed remote, for there had been no trouble with France since the Peace of Versailles had been signed six years ago. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. Always remember that. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind.
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