He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side. Prison was beastly. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. So he shut his eyes. A brief description will suffice for them.
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