It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. Jonathan gave utterance to a low whistle. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. " "You may see the marks on the child yourself, if you choose, Sir," urged the widow.
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