She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. It will do its best to overlook things—” “If we let it, poor dear. I must finish it at home. "Because the prisoner's arrival might disturb you—ha! ha!" "I'll lay you twenty guineas you don't take him to-night," rejoined Austin.
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