Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. But threats and entreaties—even promises were ineffectual; and the unlucky captive, after exhausting his powers of persuasion, was compelled to give up the point. Unless—would he hide from them as he had hidden from her? It was a big house, he said. Had to. He fixed it. We've made a pretty penny by him—sixty guineas this blessed day. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. This time she tried to kill me with a dagger. She fell into another slumber, one which was more like a blackout. The palanquin is hired and so is the procession.
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