His eyes were closed. I learned of your betrothal, gleaned all the information I could simply by eavesdropping. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Rowland, meantime, alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from his attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the incident just described. "Now stand before me, Poll.
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