"No offence," returned Jonathan. We girls, my sister and I, were left quite alone when our father died, and I made up my mind to make some little place in the world for myself. I will not be sent away. " "'Tis he, by Heaven!" cried Jonathan; "this is lucky. And I've made up my mind that a husband ought to believe only half that he hears, and nothing that he sees. They were only passers-by. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. It was the size of my palm.
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