’ You mean you hope you do, thought Gerald cynically. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level again, and leaned towards her.
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