The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. You shall hear from me to-morrow.
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