His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. He remembered it suddenly. " "Here's a particular account of Jack's many robberies and escapes," roared the hawker,—"how he broke into the house of his master, Mr. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster.
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