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It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Chapter XXVIII THE HISSING OF “ALCIDE” There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. And the door was suddenly thrown open, and the two janizaries felled to the ground by the strong arm of the stalwart robber. She fell into a pleasant dream of positions and work.
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