His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. Instead, she laughed, laughed with lips and eyes, laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. Gerald, whose French was adequate from his military service abroad, was able to respond suitably to such remarks as the ladies addressed to him, but was less exercised by their fashionable dress than their decidedly careworn appearance. .
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