“There is no doubt whatever about that. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. ‘Until today. Or perhaps my father once. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. A sob was strangled in her throat. She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room.
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