She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. “Steady on!” he cried. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner.
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