He could scarcely blame her. ‘Jacques!’ She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. Can't I make you understand? Perhaps it sounds cruel to you; but we women often have to be cruel defensively.
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