There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. Two packets were committed to your charge, which you undertook to deliver,—one to another priest, Sir Rowland's chaplain, at Manchester, the other to Mr. "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 closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot.
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