‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. "I have just parted from one," said Trenchard. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. Ruth shivered; she was cold. Wood again made his appearance in a more composed frame of mind, and, at his daughter's earnest solicitation, was induced to partake of some refreshment. ‘Something in that, missie.
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