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She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. He handed Ruth a letter. "You read it, Ruth. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. “Steady on!” he cried. For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. . There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side.
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