“Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. It is true that I do not love Ruth; but I swear to you, before the God of my fathers, that she shall never know it!" "I'll be getting along.
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