‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. Yet every now and then, during the progress of the meal, his attention apparently wandered, and leaning forward he glanced covertly at Anna with a curious mixture of expressions on his face. Wood, sharply. For freedom at least. If I do not look after her, she has no one.
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