I could not hear his heart beat. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. Whoever this might be, the visit seemed to have some reference to the carpenter, for, shortly afterwards, Sharples made his appearance, and informed the captives they were free. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Then, in a few years, he and Ruth might fare forth in comfort and security.
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