“But—your people!” she gasped. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. It is what I have done. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. Brendon suggests supper at the Carlton. I couldn’t help the thought. E.
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