It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. ‘Come,’ she called. Cathy sighed. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. The few pence left in her purse would only provide a very scanty lunch. "My coat!" Ruth did not move but stared astonishedly at the patient. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. I don't believe he is much past forty.
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