The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. You won’t have a man’s lips near you, but you’ll eat out of his hand fast enough. "You are my prisoner. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. "In with him!" "Ay—ay, yer hon'r," cried the foremost chairman, lending a helping hand.
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