A silence ensued. Ruth met him in the hall as he was following his family into the dining room. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. Voting wouldn’t do no ‘arm to ‘er. Now He has taken that out and given it form and beauty—you!" "Wonderful hand!" Ruth seized his right hand and kissed it. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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