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Wild, Captain?" remonstrated the other, in a deferential tone. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. "Good bye, Jack! Keep up your spirits. " "I'm sorry. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.

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