‘Gerald, what have you been about? Dorothée tells me that you were flirting outrageously with Madame Valade on Monday night. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Muffling up his face, Jack turned away; but he had not proceeded many steps when he heard a man reading aloud an account of his escapes from a newspaper. “But you must forgive me, John. Such a mystery as you have set up. ‘But what will happen to Lucia? Are we to kill her?’ ‘Of course not. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Jacques is very bad, and I am afraid he may die. I'll talk to her in the morning, but she won't understand what I'm driving at.
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