Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. Ramage,” she said, sharply, “I have to make it plain to you. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. “The Widgetts,” she said. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. I am on my way to an aunt who lives in Hartford, Connecticut. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple.
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