The tired woman looked quietly at her. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. I have it about me.
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