These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. I know faces. "This locket," he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—"do you remember it?" "I do—I do!" cried Winifred. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. And yet—I love you.
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