I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. "What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. 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. “Please have a seat. What I said about your brat was all stuff.
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