Ruth's eyes were wet, but she saw light everywhere: the room was filled with celestial aura. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. Utter silence answered him. His literary instincts were reviving. Ruth loved him. The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold.
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