But I am not worthy to be any man's wife —far less his wife. Sometimes I take innocent lives. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. He’ll do.
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