"Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. "It's a mysterious transaction altogether. When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided.
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