“In a sense—yes. ” Horace, the manservant, transformed now into the semblance of a correctly garbed waiter, threw open the door. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. He stopped abruptly before the apparently incurious Chinaman. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now.
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