I’m not Gerald, remember. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. With astonishment, Gerald saw a rheumy film rimming his old commander’s eyes. His blood would be sweet with it. ***** Spurlock possessed that extraordinary condition of the mind which is called New England conscience.
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