‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. Nothing has gone wrong here?" "Nothing whatever," replied Ireton.
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