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He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. But he dismissed that because then she would ask her lover and not him all these things. A maidservant held the front door open. "There he is!" "I fear not," said her father, with a doubtful shake of the head. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer without. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. He had heard nothing. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. His body had been maimed many times.
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