It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. And the sergeant, having carried out all Melusine’s instructions as if they had come out of his own head, went up to check on his patient, apparently at last convinced that his prisoner would not attempt to run away. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. “What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical.
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