His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. “What can I do?” “Go and see her. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. “Yes. “But it makes me feel inhuman,” he added. " "There isn't an angel in heaven, Ruth, purer or sweeter than you are.
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