“Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. "We've no time for any Bedlam scenes now. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back.
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