Ruth's eyes were wet, but she saw light everywhere: the room was filled with celestial aura. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. I am ready to wait for you, to wait your pleasure, to give all my life to winning it. Deny me, if you please. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea.
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