" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. I sha'n't cry any more. "I shall like to call you that. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose. Entranced, he stared at the name. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other.
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