Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. "Practising singing, Aaron," replied Jack. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. Stay where you are, Mr. ” “No, don’t say that. ‘I’ll send one of my men to see you here this very evening. Doesn’t matter a bit to me. 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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