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“My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Please don’t let any one know that. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy. You're always complaining that you can't keep anybody more than three months.
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