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She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. " "I cannot consent to it," replied Sir Rowland firmly. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. They're on the forward lounge in the saloon. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy.
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