"No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. "We're forgetting," he said. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination. “I wish he had,” she said. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. There was no disgust in Ruth's heart, only an infinite pity; for only the pitiful understand.
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