In another minute, the tramp of horses' feet told that the perpetrators of the outrage had effected their escape. Get out your pad and pencil. Not fit to be dust on your boots. “Then I will do what I can,” Anna promised. You will be—my wife. ‘That’s wicked, that is. When mistress took and died—’ Joan broke off and sighed, moving away to the window. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. Their subsequent conversation is outside the scope of our story. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him.
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