She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. She looked at it with a little shudder, but she made no motion to take it. The night before they made McClintock's Ruth and Spurlock leaned over the rail, their shoulders touching.
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