It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. " "The boy's not at my house," replied Wild. "How do you know that?" rejoined Jack.
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