Ruth could tell the doctor; she could bare many of her innermost thoughts to that kindly man; but there was an inexplicable reserve before this young man whom she still endued with the melancholy charm of Sydney Carton. “Dyed!” “And your figure?” “One’s corsetière arranges that. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square.
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