“And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. The coolies proceeded at a swinging, mincing trot, which gave to the suspended seat a dancing action similar to that of a suddenly agitated hangingspring of a birdcage. She would not forgive me. Heard voices. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love.
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