The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. " "Well, take a chair," rejoined Kneebone. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. gutenberg. "You don't eat," continued Kneebone, addressing Jack, who had remained for some time thoughtful, and pre-occupied with his head upon his hand.
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