She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. "Hold!" cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; "they are nothing to me. But this chap is good wine yet. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt.
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