He embraced her fully. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. " "Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray don't. "I did all for the best, as I'll explain. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. \"You're a shoo in. As no apprehension was entertained of an escape by this outlet,—nothing of the kind having been attempted by the boldest felon ever incarcerated in Newgate,—both doors were generally left open during the daytime.
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