But since you assure me you didn't write the letters, and Mr. Of course, he had no idea who I was. Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. "My son! my dear, dear son!" returned Mrs.
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