She had agonized over it for weeks. Can you inform us whence it came?" "I should think so. “But you do not know,” she whispered, “whether I am a married woman or not. ‘Never. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. ’ She bestowed a dazzling smile on Roding, who had reddened to the gills at these words. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth.
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