‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour. Starting off at a rapid pace, Jack dashed down Turnagain-lane, skirted the eastern bank of Fleet-ditch, crossed Holborn Bridge, and began to ascend the neighbouring hill. ‘You know perfectly well that she is the daughter of the Comtesse de St Erme. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days.
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