Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. "Come along, Blueskin. " "Then I must wait a long time," grumbled Blueskin. " "What am I to do to earn it?" asked Blueskin, with a disgusting leer,—"cut a throat—or throw myself at your feet—eh, my dear?" "Give me that child," returned the lady, with difficulty overcoming the loathing inspired by the ruffian's familiarity. Hollo rumbled in his throat. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found.
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