The flicker of an eyelash might betray his presence. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. 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. ‘Eh bien, Eugénie. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company.
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