" "Arrested!" exclaimed Trenchard, drawing his sword. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. While this was going on, Blueskin, seeing no notice whatever taken of him, coughed loudly and repeatedly. On the second day out he was helped to a steamer-chair on deck; on the third day, his arm across Ruth's shoulder, he walked from his chair to the foremast and back.
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