She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Fortunately, the window was not far from the ground; so opening it gently, he dropped into a backyard, and from thence got into the street. By this action, Lucy already knew what the answer was. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. .
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