" "Hold your tongue, sirrah," rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, "and mind what I tell you. I’m not Gerald, remember. But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else.
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