’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me. CHAPTER XXIII. “I’m sorry. ‘But it is idiot. . At last—I told a story. If only she had thought to plunge the scissors into her own heart! Hoddy … to return and find her either gone or dead! But even as the Wastrel's arms gathered her, there came the sound of hurrying steps on the veranda. After all, why should I care what strangers think?" Ruth asked with sudden heat.
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