"Do you know this picture?" he added, with another significant look, and pointing to the miniature. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. There was more shouting. “I wonder,” said Ramage, “that more girls don’t think as you do and want to strike out in the world. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears.
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