He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. She kept opening her eyes and looking at it. Gerald doubted there would be many eager suitors, even assuming the comtesse was keen to marry off her daughter to a foreign protestant. "Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him. It was not a long prayer. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp.
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