There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. A strange betrothal!—the primal idea of which was escape! The girl, intent upon abrogating for ever all legal rights of the father in the daughter, of rendering innocuous the thing she had now named the Terror: the boy, seeking selfcrucifixion in expiation of his transgression, changing a peccadillo into damnation! It was easy for Ruth to surrender to the idea, for she believed she was loved; and in gratitude it was already her determination to give this boy her heart's blood, drop by drop, if he wanted it. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. Still no sound.
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