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"You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. Ramage—about the forty pounds. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. ’ ‘From a convent? Even if I wished to do it, I could not. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. "What is this!" cried Sir Rowland. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. ’ ‘You ain’t never,’ gasped Pottiswick. 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. Fifty sent home. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. " "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.

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