Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly. "'Odd's-my-life! what's this?" exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the superscription of one of them. "The nurses," she answered. This obstacle, which appeared to preclude the possibility of egress in that quarter, was speedily got rid of. “Do you want some of mine?” “Yes. Twenty guineas, mind.
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