His tone was rough, almost threatening. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level again, and leaned towards her. “A man like that taints a girl by looking at her, by his mere conversation. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child. ” She took his hand and smiled upon him. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard.
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