If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. And such skirts as Ann Veronica had had when she entered the valley of Saas were safely packed away in the hotel, and she wore a leather belt and loose knickerbockers and puttees—a costume that suited the fine, long lines of her limbs far better than any feminine walking-dress could do.
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