It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. “I killed him. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. " "How?" exclaimed the other. " And, having partaken of a hasty breakfast, he set out. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her. “It’s very good,” she said.
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