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" So Ruth heard about the poets; she became tolerably familiar with the exploits of that engaging ruffian Cellini; she heard of the pathetic deafness of Beethoven; she was thrilled, saddened, exhilarated; and on the evening of the twelfth day she made bold to enter the talk. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. His lips parted in a rare smile. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. He walked her home.
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