“The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. " "That's well!" cried Jack. She repeated this breathlessly. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service.
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