‘You would read my mind?’ Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. This he carried on by procuring witnesses to swear away the lives of those persons who had incurred his displeasure, or whom it might be necessary to remove. She was obliged to concede that his features were pleasing, his strength and vitality attractive; and there was no denying how well this uniform of a militia suited his figure, which was lean and powerful both. ‘Why does this person say you are mad?’ ‘Because I am risking having my head blown off,’ Gerald answered cheerfully. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely.
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