He handed Ruth a letter. She never calls herself ‘Alcide. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. “Come this way,” he said. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. Very well. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. I can't give you my hand; but you may take it. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing.
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