I—well, I lost my temper. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. " "Then this is not my child?" exclaimed she, with increased astonishment. Why don’t you just tell me what is going on with you! Why the police questioned you! Why they’re looking for your mother? I’ll understand! Just tell me and I swear to God Lucy I’ll understand. Oh, you must believe me. " "Well said, Jack," cried Figg.
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