She gloried in it: he needed her. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself. God had never answered any of her prayers. \"Shouldn't you be in bed? You go into work at 5:30, I thought. They say it hasn't been opened for eight years—but I won't be eight years in getting out of it. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. 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. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to.
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