“I wanted to make love to you. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it. “Impossible to say,” he answered. But I vowed that Ruth should never suffer the way I did—and do. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. E.
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