They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. Nice lady.
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