‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. But the stone was slippery; and the tide, which here began to feel the influence of the fall, was running with frightful velocity. The man’s as obstinate as a mule.
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