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“Do I understand you then to refuse my offer?” he asked Anna. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. ‘Not kill me, I mean.
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