It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. I had no idea. Cursing under his breath, Gerald moved swiftly across and dragged her away. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. His title has descended to Rowland: his estates to Aliva.
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