A young man was playing the banjo. Accordingly, he stopped the coach, dismounted, and hastened towards the assemblage, which, he was glad to find, consisted chiefly of a posse of watchmen and other guardians of the night. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. She did not remember him, but he said that he had introduced himself to her when she was visiting the butcher's family. He stared at her breasts while he touched them. "You poor child!" Prudence took Ruth's hands in her own. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard. “You too sing?” he asked.
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