" "'No doubt,'" said Wood, who had again turned over the leaves of the sacred volume—', "no doubt this man is a murderer, whom, though he escaped the seas, yet vengeance suffereth not to live'. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. All that she had ever loved were gone, except Sebastian.
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