. ’ ‘Yes, a pretty theory, Lucy,’ Gerald said evenly, ‘but for one thing. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs.
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