"Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ‘But―but how can he know?’ His soldier’s instinct overtook Gerald and he dropped all his insouciance in a bang, becoming brisk. He glanced at his watch. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves.
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