‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. Wood cut him short by stating his intention of crossing the river as soon as possible in order to avoid the storm. " "What do you mean, Sir?" asked Trenchard.
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