To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. ’ ‘But if she’s going to gaol—’ ‘Just keep watch, like you’ve been told,’ Roding said severely, turning to glare at his sergeant.
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