He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. I’ve never had a homemade Thanksgiving meal like that.
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