He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. It’s not like we’re getting married. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. As he crossed this chamber, his foot struck against something on the floor, which nearly threw him down, and stooping to examine the object, he found it was a key. Anna was afterwards astonished at her own selfpossession.
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