Ah, no, I have it wrong. Wood the carpenter. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “I think that I shall be the most unpopular man in London. While the carpenter irresolutely quitted the room, with a strong presentiment of ill upon his mind, a light quick step was heard descending the stairs, and before he could call out to prevent it, a man was admitted into the passage. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity.
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