The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. We've made a pretty penny by him—sixty guineas this blessed day.
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