It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. Anticipating this, Wild avoided the shot by suddenly, ducking his head. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her.
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