. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. You may have to carry them further and longer than you think. ’ Gerald capitulated. All alone; and nobody cared whether he lived or died.
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