But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. We will get on with the agreement and you shall have in it whatever rubbish you like. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. “It might be a policeman borrowing the driveway and looking out for speeders. ‘You would know more of me?’ ‘I would know everything about you,’ Gerald told her, his tone at once provocative and inviting. When he awoke, it was late in the day; but though he heard voices outside, and now and then caught a glimpse of a face peeping at him through the iron grating over the door, no one entered the prison, or held any communication with him. It ought never to have begun. .
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