” He sidled toward her, but she recoiled from him, leaving him in possession of the hearth-rug. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ’ No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. ‘This is not love, Marthe. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness. I've already told you I'm about to take a long journey, and it's more than probable I shall never return. She let go of him and stood up, straightening herself.
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