” “He only heard this afternoon,” Sydney continued. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. "By the powers!" he added, turning his lantern full upon the face of the captive, "he's a nice gennteel-lookin' kiddy, I must say. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. “Will he die?” she asked. She placed the freezer back on top of Ray Plote's old hiding place, now his permanent resting place. He misstated her age and address; but you can’t get home on him for a thing like that. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that.
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