The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. “I have come for an explanation,” she said. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. After all, it was really rather funny. ” “It isn’t exactly that,” Anna answered, “but to tell you the truth, I cannot bear to look upon myself as a rank failure. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly.
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