. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. " "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement.
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