Spare me, and I'll be quiet—quiet —quiet!" "Mother!" said Jack, advancing towards her. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. Your lamented mother, whose loss I shall ever deplore, perceived my passion and encouraged it. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. He's more like a lord than—" As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. .
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