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“Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. There was some one there. And rather unscrupulous. He halted,—looked fearfully around,—stopped again, and exclaimed aloud, "I don't like the job; and yet it must be done, or Mr. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move. He probably imagines himself to be a thousand times worse off than he actually is. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips.
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