CHAPTER XVII. "And, does any of our bright blood flow in the veins of a ruffianly housebreaker?" cried Trenchard, with a look of bewilderment. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant.
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