“Have you not missed me?” He inquired. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. I can’t help you a cent. But, on the bursting of that bubble, his hopes vanished with it.
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