I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. Whatever you need to do, it is your business.
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