Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. Having made a tolerably good meal upon the loaf, overcome by fatigue, Jack turned into a barn in Stoke Newington, and slept till late in the day, when he awakened much refreshed. Ruth, having decided a course for herself—that of renunciation—and having the strength to keep it, met these advances in precisely the mood they were offered. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray.
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