The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Jack Kimble. She began to want to lay her head down on his chest but absolutely denied herself. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. And you’re as clean as fire. ” “You are not yourself to-night, Courtlaw,” Ennison said.
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