"May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. "Will that do?" he added, returning it. "Good-bye!" For a moment Ruth was tempted to fling herself against the withered bosom; but long since she had learned repression. Wood. “You are talking like a boy. Do not oppose it, and I will serve you.
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