"You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine. ‘You did not find Gosse, that is seen, but—’ ‘Gosse? Gosse? Who’s this here Gosse then?’ ‘He is the Frenchman of whom I told you. ‘That is better, no?’ ‘Dieu. He shall have the estates.
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