" The Wastrel tried to reach Ruth's lips. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. "'Sblood! what's this!" cried Jonathan, in the utmost surprise. It’s Providence. She chose to hold her nose. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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