"I know not—and care not," replied Jack. You have to marry me. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. By a sort of instinct. Fifty sent home. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments.
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