The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task.
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