Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off.
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