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She had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. The particulars of her engagement were very clear in her memory. They were looking for a guide. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. He did his best not to grin. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration.
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