‘I only wish I might have won her confidence. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul. She found she could do her microscope work all the better for being in love. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy.
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