" "Accident or not," rejoined Sheppard; "you're no longer pall of mine. Gently each time Ruth drew down the arms. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers.
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