I can fairly understand Ruth; but you…!" "Have you ever been so lonely that the soul of you cried in anguish? Twentyfour hours a day to think in, alone?… Perhaps I did not want to go mad from loneliness. ” “Your sister,” he answered, “did me the honour of dining with me last night. “I have had a trying evening and I need rest. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. ‘Where was I? Oh yes. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. My wife—killed me. This made the eleventh.
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