" So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. Can you come over?” “I think so. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. " "Mr. " Almost the identical words of the boy. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. But he reckoned without his host.
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