‘Monsieur Charvill thought perhaps that his daughter would find not a welcome. She could not feel her own body. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. The word handsome was a little beyond her grasp. The thief-taker's throat was bound up with thick folds of linen, and his face had a ghastly and cadaverous look, which communicated an undefinable and horrible expression to his glances.
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