“The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. ’ ‘Excellent,’ Gerald had approved. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. Her fingers closed upon it instinctively.
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