It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. ‘You did not find Gosse, that is seen, but—’ ‘Gosse? Gosse? Who’s this here Gosse then?’ ‘He is the Frenchman of whom I told you. . . ’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand.
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