Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse. She was looking anxiously at the entrance to the restaurant. If you talk of your faults, I shall talk of your splendors. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth.
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