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Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Her situation was perplexing her very much, and the Widgett atmosphere was lax and sympathetic, and provocative of discussion. Ruth's eyes were wet, but she saw light everywhere: the room was filled with celestial aura. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage.
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