‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. To buy the freedom of a poor little Chinese slave-girl! For what was the sing-song girl but a slave, the double slave of custom and of men? Ruth wanted to know keenly what had impelled the idea. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. He was damned if he knew what to do. Many a black veil hid a high-born dame, and the religious habit was no protection. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. \" He said.
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