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"Do you submit?" interrogated Wild. And because he knew it was a burden, there was no gaiety upon the doctor's face; neither was there speech on his tongue. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. . "Right!—right!" cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast. My death, probably. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. The Night-Cellar XVIII.
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