“You did your best to kill me,” he said. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. "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. I wanted it badly. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest.
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