"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars. No tricks would serve. “She thinks that Missy is trying to turn me into a punk or a Goth. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. Instead, her husband was probably wise.
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