The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. "I am glad you think that," she replied. " The woollen-draper made no answer, but hastily starting up, bolted the door. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. "He is," returned Quilt, significantly. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean.
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