"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. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. . . ‘That is better, no?’ ‘Dieu. ’ She raised the pistol. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. That’s Italians for you.
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