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He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. There was something indeed holding the whole species back from the imaginable largeness of life. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. 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. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. I do not know if I will have to escape quickly once more. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it. She was suddenly grave. Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation methods and addresses. And here against a wall were the plumtrees.
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