When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. Thus, more and more Ruth turned to the mongrel dog who bore the name of Rollo unflinchingly—the dog that adored her openly, shamelessly, who now without a whimper took his diurnal tubbing. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in.
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