“Some day,” she answered. . \" That again. I do not know if I will have to escape quickly once more. But you belong to me—and I want you. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. But how am I to know of things?” “Some things I hope you may never know,” he said. And yet—I love you. " "Others may, if you won't," muttered Jack, retiring.
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