He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ‘You should not kiss me at all, and undoubtedly I should kill you. Will you come sensibly, or shall I carry you? You are mine!" Ruth's peculiar education had not vitiated the primitive senses; they were always on guard; and in a moment such as this they rushed instantly to the surface. Aha!" he continued, producing a short silver staff, which he carried constantly about with him, and uttering a terrible imprecation, "I see you're confounded.
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