This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. Guns were impossible. “I am under police surveillance,” she said. "And so you've given up all hope of escaping, eh, Jack?" remarked Hogarth.
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