It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ’ ‘But he gives them to me. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. It was no use. "He hears me not! he's gone!" she added, as the door was opened and shut with violence; "something tells me I shall never see him again!" When her father, a moment afterwards, issued from the parlour to ascertain the cause of the noise, he found her seated on the stairs, in an agony of grief.
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