The latch came with a weak click. " Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds. And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. " "I wish you did have some faults, Ruth. ” Her hands fell to her side. That's a queer yarn.
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