“You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. “You are in a private room of St. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady.
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