Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. And it is not at all his affair. She stood up and he sat down at the microscope, and for a time he was busy scrutinizing one section after another. Picked up the photograph, looked at it, handed it back, and never batted an eye! The act was as clear as daylight, but the motive was as profoundly mysterious as the race itself. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing.
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