The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. I’ve been on the watch for you. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success.
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