Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. \"Where are you going?\" She cried. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. . Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. Get me an interview with her. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell. Then she went back and mixed up the sheets in a search for particular passages.
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