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She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. “Yes. He hated himself a little for it. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention.
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