“The conventions do not matter one little bit. Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth. Lucy grabbed its handle, her broken bones mending inside her causing her to wince in pain. I sha'n't cry any more. But I can tell you who'll have the pleasure of hanging your father's son; and that's a person not a hundred miles distant from you at this moment—ha! ha!" As he said this, the door was opened, and Charcam entered, accompanied by a dwarfish, shabby-looking man, in a brown serge frock, with coarse Jewish features, and a long red beard. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. His literary instincts were reviving. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. M. Had he not said so? Not that she wished him to marry her.
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