Presently he turned to Courtlaw. He has no imagination, no real generosity. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. I hear the splash in the water—I see the white object floating like a sea-bird on the tide—it will not sink!" "'Sblood!" exclaimed Jonathan, in a tone of ill-disguised contempt; "it won't do to indulge those fancies now. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. "He's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is.
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