CHAPTER XII. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. “But how can you?” asked Constance. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. . She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened.
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