“I can tell you are thinking about it. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. Mrs. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. Her head rose. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. She prevaricated. She listened with dumb fear in her eyes.
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