"Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. She fled. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go to her and console her! Accursed—all of them— Enschede, Ruth, and himself.
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