"You're not hurt I hope, Sir Rowland?" inquired this individual. Now he thought she was so foolish that she knew only one stroke. . The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. He would always be her friend, too. They were familiar but more massive. "A man!" "At your service, my dear," replied the jailer. The Scot understood that, gently and indirectly, Ruth was asking her husband a question, opening a door if he cared to enter.
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