She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. At last I tried a dramatic agent, and got on the music hall stage. I just want him, and no one else will do. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. That’s how things are; that’s the order of the world. “Who, me? I scare you?” He asked.
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