She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. CHAPTER XIV Ruth lost the point entirely. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan's ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds.
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