He found himself growing hoarse yelling over the music, but it also situated him to lean towards her to put his hand on her ear to aid her hearing. ~THE END~ [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Photoplay The Ragged Edge MIMI PALMERI AS RUTH ENSCHEDE ALFRED LUNT AS HOWARD SPURLOCK] [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Photoplay The Ragged Edge A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY] [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Photoplay The Ragged Edge A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY] [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Photoplay The Ragged Edge A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ragged Edge, by Harold MacGrath *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAGGED EDGE *** ***** This file should be named 15614-8. Leave the rest to me. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. Think, ma’am. Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. What is it?" "Is there anything I can do?" The idiocy of the question filled him with the craving of laughter. God had never answered any of her prayers. Sheppard. He too, when she had disappeared, called a carriage. Why hadn't he gone on with the girl's story? What instinct had stuffed it back into his throat? Why the inexplicable impulse to hurry this rather pathetic derelict on his way? CHAPTER XV Previous to his illness, Spurlock's mind had been tortured by an appalling worry, so that now, in the process of convalescence, it might be compared to a pool which had been violently stirred: there were indications of subsidence, but there were still strange forms swirling on the surface—whims and fancies which in normal times would never have risen above sub-consciousness. ‘Then let her keep her Frenchified titles to herself. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars.
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