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Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. "My coat!" Ruth did not move but stared astonishedly at the patient. ‘Not here. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife.
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