Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. You can come back for these, for you’ll carry him to the gatehouse, that’s what you’ll do. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. “So Lucy, I hear that you are quite the violin player. Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts. They've heard quite enough for my purpose," he muttered, as his orders were obeyed, and the domestics excluded.
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