"My little fancy man's quite as fond of me as of you, Bess. I'll dispose of the brat. I am your servitor. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head. Will you come sensibly, or shall I carry you? You are mine!" Ruth's peculiar education had not vitiated the primitive senses; they were always on guard; and in a moment such as this they rushed instantly to the surface. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove.
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