‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. And you’re as clean as fire. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. You should have more. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends. Drink, and no sustaining food.
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