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Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had terminated. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory.
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