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She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. ‘Let go!’ ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Gerald demanded. ‘We were wondering about that. Drink the toast, Jack. ’ Shock ripped through Charvill’s chest. But I may yet live to thwart them. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady. Spurlock: 'tis Roundhead, sure enough. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage.
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