Wood had been my father, as well as yours. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. ’ ‘Poor sort of a mother,’ Martha said with bitterness. I don’t care what else there is in the world. "What I do is for the best, and I can only hope she may have strength to bear the separation. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. Will you come sensibly, or shall I carry you? You are mine!" Ruth's peculiar education had not vitiated the primitive senses; they were always on guard; and in a moment such as this they rushed instantly to the surface.
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