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Updated: April 30, 2025
Sampson, a tall, gray-moustached, pleasant-faced man, nodded to them familiarly and proceeded to make minute examination of his patient's wound. From time to time he questioned and issued low-voiced instructions to Sister Marthe. Perfectly motionless, the grave-eyed quartette of policemen stood grouped around the cot, silently awaiting the physician's verdict.
Todaro. It is enough. Let us go. I follow her. Such is the force of the passion in southern hearts. They follow that beautiful blonde, who, marching demurely in front of the gray-moustached papa and the fat mamma, after the fashion in Venice, is electrically conscious of pursuit.
At the house with the green lights beside the steps he pulled up. He flung wide the cab doors and tumbled heavily to the ground. "Come on, you," he said, roughly. His fare came forth with the Casino dreamy smile still on her plain face. Jerry took her by the arm and led her into the police station. A gray-moustached sergeant looked keenly across the desk. He and the cabby were no strangers.
He found the gray-moustached subaltern tramping in great perplexity up and down the room, and the instant he entered was greeted with the inquiry, "What's gone wrong? What's Jerrold been doing?" "Don't ask me any questions, Sloat, but answer. It is a matter of honor. What was your bet with Jerrold?" "I oughtn't to tell that, Chester. Surely it cannot be a matter mixed up with this."
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