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Ruth could not very well object, since an air of distinction would go with Taber. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. We aren't between him and heaven; he is between us and heaven. Montague Hill is. Here, without a glimpse of daylight; visited by no one except Austin at stated intervals, who neither answered a question nor addressed a word to him; fed upon the worst diet, literally mouldy bread and ditch-water; surrounded by stone walls; with a flagged floor for his pillow, and without so much as a blanket to protect him from the death-like cold that pierced his frame,—Jack's stout heart was subdued, and he fell into the deepest dejection, ardently longing for the time when even a violent death should terminate his sufferings.
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