‘But―but how can he know?’ His soldier’s instinct overtook Gerald and he dropped all his insouciance in a bang, becoming brisk. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again.
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