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“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. To reach it would be a most difficult undertaking. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. There are also the letters which were scattered about Wild's room after the murder of Sir Rowland. He took Diane out. Anna was singing as she used to sing. ‘She means thanks to you, General,’ Gerald translated automatically, forgetful of his old commander’s fiery temper. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. ‘She’s perfectly right. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. “Thank you—and good-bye. I care for you. She had nothing to say for herself. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad.
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