‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. But Jack was too well versed in the geography of the place to attempt either of them. From the Sha-mien to the yacht, Spurlock had uttered no word; though, even in the semi-darkness, no gesture or word of Ruth's escaped him. So here I am, king of all I survey, with a predilection for poker, a scorched liver, and a piano-player. Here would be a woman perfectly unrecognizable, strong, ruthless but just. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. CHAPTER XVII. I'll be at the Cross Shovels in the course of the day.
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