“DEAR MR. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. Mr. . There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. I suspect he has a bit of vanity.
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