Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both. Holding the lamp over her rigid but beautiful features, Jonathan, with some anxiety, placed his hand upon her breast to ascertain whether the heart still beat. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt.
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