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‘What happened, ma’am?’ enquired Gerald gently. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. She saw his finger pull back on the hammer of the gun and shrieked a warning just as Jack launched himself forward and Gosse turned and fired. In reply to this summons a horn was instantly blown at the corner of the street. ‘That’s better. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. They clapped wildly afterward. Besides, she had admitted her identity. In the '80s such a dress would have indicated considerable financial means; under the sun-helmet it was an anachronism; and yet it served only to add a quainter charm to the girl's beauty. .
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