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CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. No great lover of state or state costume at any time, he was generally, towards the close of an evening, completely in dishabille, and in this condition he now presented himself to his subjects. She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to scream for. " "Worth anything?" "I don't know.
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