Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. Why had he glanced up—quite in that way?. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. His eyes were closed. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. ” “And he accepted meekly?” “Practically.
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