Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. "' Instead of regarding him, Jack glanced over the iron bannisters, and measured the distance. Only an undermaid I was then. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. Ruth shivered; she was cold. I have a weapon—a knife—and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart. I'd go for it.
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