It was his heart. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. "There's no outlet that way.
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