But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. Happy Birthday, then. On that basis alone, he had no right to give or accept love. ‘I don’t want to hurt you any more. Ever since he came here, three months ago, he has been the life and soul of the place; and now the death warrant has arrived, instead of being cast down, as most men would be, and as all others are, he's gayer than ever. It’s not like we’re getting married.
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