It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. ‘I knowed he were a wrong ’un, but that. Huge trees obscured the view of it. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. "By the avenger of his family's dishonour—by your brother," he replied, coolly.
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