Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. ” “I haven’t told any one the amount,” he went on. "I understand," she said. "I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted.
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