Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. He had him removed from the Condemned Hold, stripped of his fine apparel, clothed in the most sordid rags, loaded with additional fetters, and thrust into the Stone Hold,—already described as the most noisome cell in the whole prison.
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