’ ‘I presume you were not with her in France?’ Kimble stared. "You came hither under my protection, and you shall depart freely,—nay, more, you shall have an hour's grace. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. " And, as if to make the moral more obvious, a dirty pack of cards was scattered, underneath, upon the sawdust. .
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