She was nearly too giddy still to answer him. . ” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Gerald swore. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. For a long time he remained standing before the fire, staring at the situation.
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