But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. ‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. He shall expiate his offences on the gibbet.
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