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I can fairly understand Ruth; but you…!" "Have you ever been so lonely that the soul of you cried in anguish? Twentyfour hours a day to think in, alone?… Perhaps I did not want to go mad from loneliness. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid. . ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. The confirmed drunkard's mouth at length sets itself peculiarly; it becomes the mark by which thoughtful men know him.
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