All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. ‘Dare I guess at the reason for your sudden interest in émigrés, Gerald?’ ‘Lucilla,’ barked Hilary warningly. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. He is Jacques. My late husband, I mean. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife.
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