I can fairly understand Ruth; but you…!" "Have you ever been so lonely that the soul of you cried in anguish? Twentyfour hours a day to think in, alone?… Perhaps I did not want to go mad from loneliness. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. " "What's that?" "Think it over," said McClintock, grimly. I hope she falls off the face of the planet. I’m glad I did. I never hunt the human tiger without being armed.
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