Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. "My worst fears are realized. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. ‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. . ’ ‘Ah, that was an affair altogether different,’ she explained and fluttered her long lashes at him.
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