The path he had selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling. She took his hand in hers. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. "But pray tell me if her husband has escaped?" "Her husband!" echoed Jonathan scornfully. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. . . But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back.
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