It was no use. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Mr. "You heard me say it! It was inevitable. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. He caressed her tenderly, with no trace of the Sebastian who had previously knocked her off her feet with a slap across the mouth. "I do," replied Jack, carelessly.
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