“Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. “Yes, he made them all. Too much, perhaps. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. You have taken my dagger. And with a hideous expression of pain, he fainted. Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat.
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