It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. “He can’t be more than thirty. White. She may be an infuriating little devil, but she is far from stupid. Strange, I shouldn't know him when he called on me. Smiling, the Chinaman gave the correct pronunciation. Gerald stayed him.
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