He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. ‘Of course not,’ snapped his friend. " "At all events, let me send her away, my dear," supplicated the carpenter, anxious to avert the impending storm. But I dare not accept it. ‘There are no Remenhams left. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right. Trifle useful?" he added, slipping a few gold pieces into Jack's hand. The future Mrs Roding turned bright, laughing eyes on the major. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Jack dropped the knife, and walked sullenly aside.
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