” “Who cooked it all?” He asked. Jack was completely overcome. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. To disillusion her, forthwith. I was orphaned a long time ago.
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