“It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. You simply can't get good oil down there, so I must husband the few drams I carry. I’m going to tell you things plainly. " So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk.
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