The boy she had loved was gone. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. I have calculated my chances, you perceive. ” And to that, through vast rhetorical meanderings, she clung.
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