Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. "During the whole of that time I have been a close prisoner in Newgate, whence I have only just escaped. ‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave. ‘How did you guess?’ ‘I guessed as soon as you said this was your house. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. " "How do you spell the last name?" He spelt it.
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