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" He passed it over; and Ruth read: To be opened in case of my death and the letter inside forwarded to the address thereon. 5. She flew up the covered stairs and knocked upon his door. Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. He might solve the riddle. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. She is English, and apparently in some distress. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. " "That's the way it goes.
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