“It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. "You read it, Ruth. Neither you nor your mother shall escape me. ‘Wait for me. I’m afraid I’m a terribly clumsy fellow. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. He would provide the necessities of life and protect her. I am going to ask him to finish it. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm.
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