But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. He had mentioned teaching her how to read Latin one day when she had wandered into the library. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “Mr. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. Abruptly would come the end. She had felt very uncomfortable around him, grotesque. “Well?” “You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry. You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me.
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