Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. I might as well try to build a ladder to heaven. F. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. Bah! She does not know me very well, and you—not at all.
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