‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. ‘This is not love, Marthe. ‘Why not a French flag?’ ‘Because I don’t believe that fool Pottiswick could tell French from Arabic, even if he heard it as he says he did—which I take leave to doubt. Then he turned to Anna. CHAPTER III. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled.
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