Heedless, however, of the consequences, he pursued his task. They were both conscious, however, that something had intervened between them. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. He wore a black tail coat buttoned tightly over his chest, and a large diamond pin sparkled in a white satin tie which had seen better days. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. There is a new life, different from the old life of dependence, possible.
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