He handed Ruth a letter. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. I was compelled to run away. "By my shalvation, boy," he added, fiercely, "if you don't take your hande off my peard, I'll sthrangle you. Shortly a man descended laboriously.
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