The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. "What for?" demanded Wood. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. " "And what—what was your answer?" demanded the widow, eagerly. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
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