‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. Anna was sitting before the fire a little distance from him—Ennison himself remained standing. I do not intend to allow you to forget. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him.
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