To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. She hated the manor. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. Open that bottle with a blue seal, my dear.
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