She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. "You are my prisoner, Jack. " "Murder him!" cried Trenchard shuddering. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. If she returns to the house from which we took her, her companions will laugh at her and smother her with ridicule. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time. Sheppard, distractedly.
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