Brendon was silent. "I'm tired of the life I'm leading. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. "What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. I won’t even ask. But he might have broken out of prison, and yet not got over the wall of Clerkenwell Bridewell.
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