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The moment he was out in the hall, Ruth sat up hugging and rocking her body in delight. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. She would have just to keep the fifteen pounds until she could make it twenty. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. She formed a habit which embarrassed Spurlock greatly, but at first he dared not complain. You are nothing of the sort. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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