A curious silence ensued. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. Once again the cavalcade was in motion, and winding its way by St. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure her. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor.
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