You denied it at the time—but unfortunately I have proof. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. But she was not sure just how to reach it. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. I do not know anything of him since I have fourteen years, and that he sent me to Blaye to be a nun.
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