That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Had he but known it, his outburst had done him no harm in the major’s eyes. She sings better perhaps. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. But as the mystery which surrounded Ruth fell away that which enveloped her father thickened. “Either I want to shout,” said Mr.
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