"Get up, mother," cried Jack; "do not kneel to him. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. In all other respects they differed as materially. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. “Good-bye, Miss Pellissier, and success to you,” he said. The touch of her hands was pleasurable. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. He brought home her first “meal”, a man who he 77 claimed was a highwayman who had raped several women and was destined for the hangman’s noose. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room.
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