’ ‘Why should you care?’ demanded Roding, exasperated. He made a note of the idea and stored it away. In the north they called her Manitou, in the south, Pabothkew. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Spurling had retired for the night. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. She gave tongue to the most urgent of her plaints. CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. "Von't you hear me?—ough! ough!" demanded Sharples, after a pause. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters.
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