" So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. And she seemed always to keep one eye on Ann Veronica’s dress. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I lost; and I should like to be as good as my word. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. "It has been … rather a hard day, Hoddy," Ruth answered. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. Queer old gentleman! The art of ignoring is one of the accomplishments of every well-bred girl, so carefully instilled that at last she can even ignore her own thoughts and her own knowledge. I should say that having a doubt was enough to condemn it.
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