" "I know not how to act," exclaimed Jack, almost driven to desperation. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. He ate of the bread with great appetite, and having drunk as much as he chose of the water, poured the rest on the floor. “You see the pointer?” he asked. \"Don't they want you to go to Stanford?\" \"They think it is too much money. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. ” “It’s gone.
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