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Ruth loved him. "And now, I've one further request," faltered Jack; "though I scarcely know how to make it. ” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. They do not come for me, to find me and bring me home. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. " "Poh! poh! say no more about it," rejoined the man hastily. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight.
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