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The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began to chatter rapidly. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. "I knew his poor mother, and for her sake I'll not see this done," cried John Dump.
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