"What's become of Ruth?" "Gone to her room. I am a thing to be used. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. When he returned, it was always the same. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends. She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod. Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour, Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis's donation, affected to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in reality, he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his sleeve, and running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door.
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