“I believe that you are right,” he said softly. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. We meant to make it dinner and a theatre, but you were not home. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. "I've the Bridewell account to settle. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. If you owe your confinement to me, you shall owe your liberation to me, also. “Does it hurt?” Michelle asked.
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