" Mr. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. ” Tears flowed down her face.
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