‘Leave it, imbecile. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. I bent over him. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. "While I live you are safe," rejoined Trenchard; "after my death I can answer for nothing. ‘I am not a fool. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. ” She grinned.
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