“I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. Catching hold of his chin, he bent back the neck, while with his left hand he pulled out a clasp knife, which he opened with his teeth, and grasping Wild's head with his arm, notwithstanding his resistance, cut deeply into his throat. Smith's melody had subsided. It’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case. He has nothing to fall back upon, no substitute; but a woman always has the mother love. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. Fear nothing.
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