“Someone must have found it and taken good care of it. ‘If you shoot me,’ Gerald said quickly, throwing out a hand, ‘I shan’t be able to rescue you. . I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble. Que pasa con ustedes?” He returned in bad Spanish. I asked him to take me away, and hide me. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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