“You wouldn’t. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. "You've got him?" demanded Ireton. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue.
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