She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. It was decrepit and too large. " "I will, when I've had my revenge," muttered Jack. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. I’m sorry. I have only just left Wych Street. He claimed me for his wife, and showed to every one a marriage certificate. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance.
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