Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. "Take care, Jack," shouted Thames, who witnessed the occurrence; "that plank isn't properly balanced. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies.
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