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It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ‘Quick, Gérard. I am very, very sorry, but you must listen to me. It might be three yards in width, and a few more in length; but it was covered with ooze and slime, and the waves continually broke over it. There was no mistaking his intentions this time. Milice,’ Gerald translated. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement.
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