Drawing the pay of life and then not living. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held her fast. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards.
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