“One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. Voilà tout. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. Presently he felt motion. ’ ‘I thought you were dead,’ Melusine confided. "Where are you going?" she asked. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel. 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.
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