She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength.
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