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“My dear Anna,” he answered. She crushed the letter in her hand. " "There isn't an angel in heaven, Ruth, purer or sweeter than you are. He had a narrow escape, however; for, passing within an inch of him, the bullet burried itself deeply in the wall. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. Looking for something, or someone, probably.
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