Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. Once more he begged; but as Ruth only repeated her sharp command, he spun about and raced toward the jungle. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. While there's life there's hope. The rest of his attire was nondescript. He put his arms around her in a circular embrace. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. "Ja, ja, Muntmeester," said the Hollander, shaking his head in reply;—"very bad —very.
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