Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. "You are my prisoner. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. "Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. The Widow and her Child II. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers.
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