"You are my prisoner, Jack. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. It’s a sort of guarantee of confidence. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. " "As like as life, Sir," observed Austin, peeping over Thornhill's shoulder at the portrait. Go off and live together—until we can marry.
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