“It was poison—why not?” she answered. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica. In doing this, he chanced to raise his eyes and half fancied he beheld, shaded by a pillar at the extremity of the western aisle, the horrible countenance of the thief-taker. He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. The momentary alarm over, he threw a piece of-wash leather over a bureau, so as to deaden the sound, and instantly broke it open with a small crowbar. He kissed her at the door.
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