For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Wood, Sir," he added, with much emotion, "is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—" and he hesitated. E. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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