It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. " O'Higgins was disarming the doctor. Her little white hand stole across the table. Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved.
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