“—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. The chapel was crowded to excess. Ruth and Spurlock separated, the one embarrassed, the other utterly dumfounded. His fingers closed upon her hand. Would to God I had. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword.
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