It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. And when I have steeped him to the lips in vice and depravity; when I have led him to the commission of every crime; when there is neither retreat nor advance for him; when he has plundered his benefactor, and broken the heart of his mother—then—but not till then, I will consign him to the fate to which I consigned his father. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. Laugh on the wrong side of your mouth, now. At least for one moment, it was.
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