“That is where I got confused,” he said. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. Neither the manners, the looks, nor the attire of these gentlemen prepossessed Mrs. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. But it is not your name. Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that. Better get a dress. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone.
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