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He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Instinctively she imitated this action, chilled and a little frightened at the expression of terror that confronted her. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. The hills surrounded her cave home protectively. " "It has done me a whole lot of good to meet you. Montague Hill. "And now," he continued, sternly, "was it your master who has just ridden by?" "No," answered Quilt, sullenly. "You are Ruth?" "Yes," said Ruth, stirred by anger and bitterness and astonishment. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. “I wish. "You are not.
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