The servants had left the room. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. ” His shoulders relaxed. "What the devil are you about! Will you allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?" "Not if I can help it," returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to regain his feet. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory.
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