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’ ‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ he agreed soothingly, ‘and you may rail at me presently as much as you please. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. Good night. I think not. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. Ruth loved him.
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