She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. I couldn’t rest or eat or sleep. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. He had barely said, \"Anytime,\" before she shut the door rather rudely in his face. \"Those look heavy. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. She sat very still, and his eyes rested on that ornament for a moment, and then travelled slowly to her wrist and the soft lines of her forearm. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. Mr. '—'It's not to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it. This horrible piece of deformity, who acted as drawer and cellarman, and was a constant butt to the small wits of the jail, was nicknamed the Black Dog of Newgate.
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