“You were born for great things,” he said huskily. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. ’ He sighed, spread his hands quite in her own manner, and fluttered his lashes. She struggled against it quite uselessly. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “Put her in the trunk.
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