Sometimes it seemed to him that he was an impostor: that Ruth believed him to be one Howard Spurlock, when he was only masquerading as Spurlock. She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry. I called myself Anna.
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