Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. I've got to know why. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. "Mother—dear mother!" said Jack, bursting into tears.
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