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He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. She throws a sort of spell over us all. I want to get away—to go to London. This will be safer than cutting his throat on shore. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. He spent a good deal more money and time than he could afford upon the little room at the top of the house, in producing new lapidary apparatus and new microscopic accessories and in rubbing down slices of rock to a transparent thinness and mounting them in a beautiful and dignified manner.
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