I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. The old aspect of the place was gone. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul. “Well, no,” she answered. Our land brings us in nothing.
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