“No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. "To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself—nay, more than life,—for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul. The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. It'll be advertised to-morrow. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. \"I'll meet you at your locker after school. . And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. Only a book detective could dope this out. And more boys die than girls, so that the real disproportion among adults is even greater.
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