“My wife refused absolutely to have anything more to do with me. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. “My charm of manner, I suppose. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone.
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