Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. I will write to your major, and you will send the letter very quickly. ” “Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?” “Easily. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. Parbleu, but she was a fool. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight.
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