It was so arranged that Ruth went on duty after breakfast and remained until noon. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Baffled in their attempt, the mob uttered a roar, such as only a thousand angry voices can utter, and discharged a volley of missiles at the soldiery. "I understand," replied Rowland. "Where?" "That can wait," she answered. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs.
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