CHAPTER VIII. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. Out of the beaten track, far from the trails of men! He relaxed. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. Get out your pad and pencil. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights.
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