"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. ‘Now you see why it is I no longer require the proof of which I have spoken. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. “I will not rob you of your coffee, most dutiful of sisters!” she exclaimed. Would to God I had. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. ‘He isn’t Valade, and the Comtesse de St Erme is absolutely furious. "What! you still hesitate! Will that rouse you, coward?" And she gave him a smart rap on the head. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. Smith had never seen anything like it. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain.
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