" "Who are they?" inquired Sheppard. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. The chance it is the same for both. It was empty. But it is no longer necessary. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound.
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