"Far from, it, Sir. Wild," said Trenchard, "I shall proceed no further in this business. ‘What the devil for? I’ll have one of the men ride the creature up tomorrow. Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. We are not animals. "Now, if as I suspect,—from the documents just placed in your possession,—Sir Rowland meditates doing you justice after his departure, it is possible his intentions may be frustrated by the machinations of Wild, whose interest is obviously to prevent such an occurrence, unless we can surprise them together, and, by proving to Sir Rowland that we possess the power of compelling a restitution of your rights, force the other treacherous villain into compliance.
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