Ruth could not be told now. Fancying they were alone, Sir Rowland threw aside his cloak, and produced a heavy bag of money, which he flung upon the table; and, when Wild had feasted his greedy eyes sufficiently upon its golden contents, he handed him a pocketbook filled with notes. I don’t believe in the faults. I waited for her at the back. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber.
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