It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. "Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. I was grateful. I have but to give a hint of that boy's existence in the proper quarter, and his life will not be worth a day's purchase. So he found her when he came round the corner of the spinney.
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