Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again. Ruth had lived in a world without caresses. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. It had been her home for hundreds of years. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. You mustn’t do things like that. For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. Moreover, atrociously and inexorably, he allowed it to appear ever and again in horrible gleams that he suspected there was some man in the case.
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