He drew her away from this thought. So I come suppliant. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. I can be that man, the one I know you want. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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