‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. There it was—to be borrowed. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. The floor was planked with oak, and covered with iron staples, hooks, and ringbolts, with heavy chains attached to them. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. Mr. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful.
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