“Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. Strange gurgle-like noises emanated from the crypt. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. But I trusted to that ring of yours. His fears supplied him with unwonted vigour. She may have any number of wasting diseases, but they cannot survive in our bodies. Go to her. She returned home to the Beck house soaked and soggy.
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