"Have a little patience, Sir," rejoined the jailer. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. He yelled at the girls for neglected to hand Lucy a pair of shorts or a sweater while they stood around in shock. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. “For instance?” She smiled. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. Her tears dissipated as she began to convulse, completely devoid of any spare fluid.
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