“If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. His first inquiries were concerning the child, and he was delighted to find that it still lived and was doing well. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. To be sure, Ruth had dimly been aware of this; but now for the first time she was made painfully conscious of it.
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