This woman knows me—’ throwing the remark at Lucilla ‘—and that I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. "Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. He yelled but he had no breath to support his own voice. A sacrifice. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. We all have to kow-tow to that.
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