She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness. " "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations.
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