Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. She forgot her vital hatred of the South Seas; she forgot that McClintock's would not differ a jot from the old island she had for ever left behind her; she forgot all the doctor's lessons and warnings. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am.
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