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There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. But no more of that. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. Enschede halted. Nobody could possibly find him now. ‘C’est ridicule. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. You must wait till supper's over. Wood's reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. ‘Then mayhap this will persuade you!’ With a scrape of steel, he drew his sword from its scabbard.
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