Perhaps it was loneliness. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends. So she approached him with sandwiches. Ruth came to him directly. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound.
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