"I'm going back for Ruth. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. Besides, he was a Yale man. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. “You know what? You’re right. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood.
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