He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. To have sprung this upon them to-night would have been worth a thousand pounds. "You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. But since you assure me you didn't write the letters, and Mr. When he left these premises, three years ago, I took them from him; or rather—to deal frankly with you,—he placed me in them rent-free, for, I'm not ashamed to confess it, I've had losses, and heavy ones; and, if it hadn't been for him, I don't know where I should have been. Somehow. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently.
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