But that explains everything. ’ ‘Compel me? You do not know me, monsieur. “I was in Paris four years ago,” Mr. "Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any.
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