“If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. Tell her, that more than once, when about to commit some desperate offence, I have been restrained by her gentle image. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. To compare me to a starving pig. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily.
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