I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. “I do mean that,” she declared. “Oh, that. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently.
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