That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. " "Stand off, Sir!" exclaimed Trenchard, starting suddenly backwards. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. He doesn't resemble you at all. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. He waited the pleasure of Monsieur. ‘Very well, then.
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