Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time. Death belongs to God, young man. He had invited himself to dine with her merely to watch her table manners. She laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. "Your son," answered the boy.
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