” “Did you say,” Sir John asked, “that the man’s name was Hill?” “Yes,” she answered. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith.
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