The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you. I’ve got a lot of things to think about. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. "Ay, good luck to him! so we have," rejoined Terence; "but we've no objection to take out the dochter's bill in drink. Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts.
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