“She is marvellously clever,” he said. That’s who you ought to go and see, miss. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. It was the grand nursery of vice. " "We won't trust you, my youngster," answered the janizary. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace. .
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