You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. He thrust out a rhetorical hand. Make haste!" Ruth hurried off to her own room. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts.
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