" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. From the Sha-mien to the yacht, Spurlock had uttered no word; though, even in the semi-darkness, no gesture or word of Ruth's escaped him. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. But, as soon as he perceived who it was, he roused himself, and glared fiercely at the intruder from under his bent brows. Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby.
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