Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. “Not a bit of it. "What is this?" she wanted to know. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured. You are too credulous. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right.
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