“I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. "Come down stairs directly, and let your mother look at your wrist. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, even I knew anything, which I don’t. I cannot answer that question.
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