The latch came with a weak click. “We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. The blood will rest on your head. Not at all. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. But as the mystery which surrounded Ruth fell away that which enveloped her father thickened. They were bathing in the stream. And a broken picture that was torn when I hit him with it. And then—this sudden thrust. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him.
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