The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. She was, she guessed, close to the library. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. It wasn’t. " "What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly.
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