Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. We went our ways. The Tigress went prowling for nut, too.
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