" So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. So she approached him with sandwiches. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner. If you can imagine it, I survived it. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. But be patient, I am your fast friend. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. \" He leaned at a steeper pitch.
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