He's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every ache and joy I've had. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. Well, after a time there came a fever in my blood. I came to see you on my own account.
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