Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him. And not a worthy tome in sight. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. I know how bad it feels. ’ ‘How dare you?’ roared the general.
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