" "Why, what the devil's this?" vociferated Jonathan, looking up. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. She glanced into her companion’s face, and she saw there strange things. “It is not possible,” he exclaimed. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. You want music. It’s the only clean way for us.
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