In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement. She took her hat from the peg in the corner and began to put it on. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. "The plot's out!" cried Jack. " "How do you manage that, Mr. You’d make a good Devil.
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