"What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. The dog approached timidly, his tail going furiously. I know less about this affair perhaps than you suppose. You really ought not to stay here and talk to us. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame.
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