"He is dying?" whispered Ruth. ’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. "Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell.
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