‘No need to shake in your boots,’ Gerald said soothingly. Not only that, but he is here in London. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. ‘What do you think?’ ‘What do I think?’ repeated Captain Roding. Not wisely but too well. “You are going to treat me as though I wasn’t. They were those of the Irish watchman. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting.
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