She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. 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. At that, the girl jumped up. ‘There’s a surgeon on his way, and my men are under orders to do whatever is needful. Nothing else matters.
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