The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters. You can live just about how you like. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth.
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