She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. The terror faded from her eyes. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet.
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