“Go it, miss!” cried one. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. True, on board the ships she had watched young men from afar, but only with that normal curiosity which is aroused in the presence of any new species.
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