. Jackson and Mr. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs. "What is it?" "Can't you see? Together, down there; you and I!… As my wife! Both of us, never to be lonely again!… Will you marry me, Ruth?" As many a wiser woman had done, Ruth mistook thrilling eagerness for love. The lad looked alarmed. It was then that the young man entered his thought with some permanency: because there was no apparent reason for his joining the tour, since from the beginning he had shown no interest in anything. "The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper.
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