As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. According to what I’ve heard, you oughtn’t to be here. Annabel shook her head. You have taken even my knife. If I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't have happened. He, for his part, was trying to grasp the series of unexpected reactions that had so wrecked their tete-a-tete. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. “You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him.
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