Oh, yes; of Ruth herself he knew much; but the more he mulled over what he knew, the deeper grew his chagrin. He turned the wheel carefully as he touched her neck with the other, threading her soft curls in between his slim fingers. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. Were such a thing to happen again, I'd never let Mr. Say something. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. “Some day,” she answered. Sir John stood upon the threshold.
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