And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. I’m glad you’re back for all sorts of reasons. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Ruth could not be told now.
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