‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. For a while he threatened her. “It was perhaps my fault. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. She watched the captain tuck the pistol back in his pocket, and perch on the edge of the big desk. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. But I dare not accept it.
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