There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. "Vell," he growled, addressing Quilt, "you know who's here, I suppose?" "To be sure I do," replied Quilt; "my noble friend, the Marquis of Slaughterford. I'll repay you. Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance.
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