‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Anna admitted the fact. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling.
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