“Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed. Also, you must send someone to fetch my horse—at least, it is not mine but I have borrowed it to come here—because it will be dark very soon and—’ ‘Woof! Hold it, hold it,’ begged the sergeant. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. "I tell 'ee what, master, if you're more fortinate nor I am, and get ashore, give old saltwater your fare.
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