With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. There!" Out of the dark unruffled sapphire of the lagoon came vertical flashes of burning silver, singly and in groups. He had put himself before the threshold of damnation; for Ruth was now a vestal in the temple.
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