"You are my prisoner, Jack. I can't spare you at present. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. So now I will say nothing more to you, and you will please to say nothing more to me, for I do not reply. " Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. “Won’t you have some more tea, Mr. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked.
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