There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. All the same, I don’t admit it.
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