“It rests with them by the nature of things. The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. Peste, where was her handkerchief? She remembered then that it had been lost in the struggle with Gerald. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am.
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