Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. But I vowed that Ruth should never suffer the way I did—and do. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying.
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