‘Only you made me lose my temper, and—’ ‘I made you do so? Pah!’ Gerald at last succeeded in ripping the handkerchief from her grasp, and swiftly held it to her neck, oblivious to her now bloodied fingers clawing at his hand. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. “As it is doubtful whether the man will live, we should be glad if you would identify him. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. She gave tongue to the most urgent of her plaints. His friendship seemed a thing worth having. .
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