‘As I have said, it was a quarrel between the vicomte and Monsieur Charvill. ’ He endured the inevitable scold with patience, saluted Mrs Chalkney’s faded cheek, and went off to endure the necessary delay with what patience he could muster. “I see nothing of my sister,” she said. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable.
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