But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. " "Pity!" shrieked the widow. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. It was good to kiss you, even at the price. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. “The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeeded. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room.
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