Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. She twisted her fingers tightly. For a moment O'Higgins had hoped that the ink applications would be recent. “How has the world taken it?” he asked.
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