Her new husband had paid for a cadre of escorts back to Mantua. " "Forgive you!" echoed his mother, with a look radiant with delight. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death.
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