She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. She cried and sobbed in fits. At least I rather hoped I might spend my time chasing smugglers, which would have afforded some excitement. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. I want you. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. You are my slave—and such you shall continue. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother.
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