“I must go. You see, I’m separated from my wife. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate. He shut his eyes and groped for the wall to steady himself, wondering if this bit of mummery would get over. Because their human lives were so short, the happily married had no time to get sick of one another. This last operation was so fatiguing, that for a short time he was obliged to pause to recover the use of his fingers. He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. ” “And in Paris——” “In Paris,” he interrupted, “she was a very delightful companion, but beyond that —one did not take her seriously. Why had Ruth married him? A penniless outcast, for she must have known he was that.
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