He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. Will you let me go out of this room?” “No,” cried Ramage; “hear me out! I’ll have that satisfaction, anyhow. I don’t quite know why. There was the stile on which Jonathan had sat, and he recollected distinctly the effect of his mocking glance— how it had hardened his heart against his mother's prayer.
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