He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. But I sent him the longest way about. He shook his head. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. Eight per cent. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady.
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