“Will he live?” The doctor shook his head. "Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. While he was considering what would be best to do, the poor maniac, over whose bewildered brain another change had come, raised her head from under the straw, and peeping round the room, asked in a low voice, "If they were gone?" "Who?" inquired Jack. “H’m!” he said, regarding the wreckage with a calmer visage. His hands reached under her skirt. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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