Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. Either we go forth together, or they shall bury me. . The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. "Adieu, my worthy uncle. .
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