Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. Moving room to room it was. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. Don't you see they're putting on their cloaks?" "That's false!" rejoined Marvel, in a low tone; "I perceive what has taken place.
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