It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. Kneebone's door, you begged me to await your return here, assuring me you would not detain me five minutes. A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. .
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