She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Her patience was waning fast. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. Not since she had discovered it had Ruth touched or opened the mission Bible; but to-night (the same upon which the wonderful manuscripts started on their long and circuitous voyage to America) she was inexplicably drawn to it.
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