” “What?” “That’s the devil of it!” “Devil of what?. ” “Nice clean hardness, anyhow. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. “May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention. They send you every good wish. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley.
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