The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. “I can’t keep away from you. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused.
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