They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch. He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers. I have suffered—I have sinned—I have repented. With Bess's assistance he then climbed up to the window, which, as has just been stated, was secured by iron bars of great thickness crossed by a stout beam of oak.
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