\" He rose and departed. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. Honestly, I never did. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. What was the objection? She found it impossible to look her own diffidence in the face. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. "He's not to blame," said Jack, rising. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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