‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. He singled out my poor husband from a crowd of other felons; and you know how right he was in that case, Sir. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. With the aid of a penknife he ripped the shoulder seams and drew out the ten one-thousand dollar bills.
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