He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. "More than three hundred weight, Sir," replied the man. "What weight are these irons?" asked Jonathan, coolly addressing one of the partners. " "Well, that's a hopeful sign. I hate what I have to do to survive. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away.
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