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"He is dying?" whispered Ruth. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. Ramage. I didn’t know. " "What for? What do you want of them?" "Why, they are … yours. The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually.
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