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She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. “I’m a big boy, you know. " "Have you told him so?" she inquired, reproachfully. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. "Will he live?" asked Ruth. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. "You know this is a pet project. The farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry.
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