"A man!" "At your service, my dear," replied the jailer. A shaft of searing heat plunged downward. . "Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. He was therefore obliged to use the iron bar, which he did with as much caution as circumstances would permit. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together.
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