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If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to Neasdon and then you'll not have above half a mile to go. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Wood," she continued, in an authoritative tone, seeing her husband ready to depart, "one word before you set out. ” He fancied that she was yielding, but her eyes fell once more upon that fatal envelope, and her tone when she spoke was colder than ever.
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