CHAPTER IV. "Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. 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. If we don’t live it will think we are afraid of it. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. 260 “Can you turn me into one?” “Yes, I can turn you into one tonight.
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