For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams. "Why does she weep?" Ruth wanted to know. They fell in a diapason of smashes. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. It was instantly burst open, when the horrible stench that issued from it convinced them that it must be a receptacle for the murdered victims of the thief-taker. It’s one of our conventional superstitions.
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