Earles said, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, “forty at the ‘Unusual,’ two turns, encores voluntary, six for matinées. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. For she knew that men married to get something. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. I don’t want to influence you unduly—But—They’re artistic people, Vee. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. The boy was bright and inquisitive as he was subtle.
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