He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. I’m not Gerald, remember. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. His glances were hard to disguise as he scanned her periodically during class. For a moment, Kneebone had hesitated about giving the signal to Shotbolt, but, thinking a more favourable opportunity might occur, he determined not to hazard matters by undue precipitation. But, as he made no answer, he was removed. There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming.
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