He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. The person caught hold of his arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.
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