To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. " "You might have added 'then'," said Miss Spurlock, drily. She shot a sudden glance at him. Her lips were dry and cracked. In one of these seats, at the end of the aisle farthest removed from the chancel, the widow took her place, and addressed herself fervently to her devotions.
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