Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations.
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