It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. "My coat!" Ruth did not move but stared astonishedly at the patient. Take care he don't see you,—and bring me word where he goes, and what he does. She pulled at his tee shirt again, wishing to feel his naked chest upon hers. He smiled.
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