"Winifred Wood will never
marry, unless the grave can give up its dead. Will you come sensibly, or shall I carry you? You are mine!"
Ruth's peculiar education had not vitiated the primitive senses; they were always
on guard; and in a moment such as this they rushed instantly to the surface. ‘She’s perfectly
right. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the
hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and
broke his leg. Ruth's
emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would
always be happy because he would always be needing her. "
"That's what troubles me," rejoined Ben. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining
some employment in London. I was grateful. Very well, I give up. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 29-06-2024 21:21:23