When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. I was Annabel the rake, ‘Alcide’ of the music halls. Afraid there'll be a love-affair.
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