So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it. He tore his gaze away, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat.
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