The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. " "Stand off, Poll," rejoined the woollen-draper; "I don't want to hurt you. " Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a sad spectacle. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. . ’ ‘Don’t be a little fool,’ Gerald snapped irritably. But, being pushed forward by his subordinate officer, he was compelled to make a stand.
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