He addressed her by that title, and something in the tone disturbed her. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. To make Ruth pay for it! He wanted to get away, into some immense echoless tract where he could give vent to this wild laughter which tore at his vitals. Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss. "Come away!" he cried, with the roar of a demon. My wife doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand now. ” “I will have your reason for this,” he said. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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