He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. See paragraph 1. Sheppard, passing her hand across her brow; "but my memory is gone—quite gone. ’ ‘Ain’t it? Want me to give you some time with her? Not that I think she’ll tell you anything. " Ruth slightly brushed the withered cheek.
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