Seems you were right about Valade. It is true that I do not love Ruth; but I swear to you, before the God of my fathers, that she shall never know it!" "I'll be getting along. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. In a moment his grasp grew weaker.
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