The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. . He uttered one word over and over, monotonously: "Fool! … Fool!" But invariably the touch of Ruth's hand quieted him, and his head would cease to roll from side to side.
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