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There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. "What do you want with me?" "A word in private," replied the other. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. "Steady, old top! What are you going to do?" "The damned scoundrel!" "I told you that child was opal. Besides, I thought you despised killing women.
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