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She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. Enschede halted. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. "After all, I believe we Chinese have the right idea. "Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. “These two haven’t been lovers for a long time. Habits and tastes are no longer the same. What's this?" he added, stooping to pick up a piece of paper lying at his feet—it was Jonathan's memorandum. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder.
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