It was something that would create a mutual claim, a relationship. “No,” she answered. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. Sir John hesitated. To have the present lengthen into years! But in a few hours she would be upon her way, far lonelier than she had ever been. Around her neck was a little gold chain. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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