"Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. Sheppard, falling on her knees. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love.
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