Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. I am too weak to aid you. He asked her whether she understood what she was saying, and went on to say still more precisely that she should never touch a penny of his money until she came home again—not one penny.
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