The rooks were cawing amid the boughs, and all nature appeared awaking to happiness. But Sheppard took no notice of the exclamation. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. Besides, your remark is not in the least complimentary. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt.
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