She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. The next moment, an exclamation was heard in the voice of Thames. I thought I’d see Paris, do the thing—like a toff. He has helped me out of scrapes though, no end of times. His new wife’s face was sweet and angelic with hair the color of flax, her belly already visibly large beneath a roe skin pelt.
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