" So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. ‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it. “I think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter. ” “You didn’t.
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