Luck. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. “No one asks you to care for them. “Miss Pellissier,” he said, “I don’t understand this change in you. ‘Only you made me lose my temper, and—’ ‘I made you do so? Pah!’ Gerald at last succeeded in ripping the handkerchief from her grasp, and swiftly held it to her neck, oblivious to her now bloodied fingers clawing at his hand. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes.
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