"Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say," observed Jonathan, sarcastically. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty.
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