" The feminine vanities in Ruth were quiescent; nothing had ever occurred in her life to tingle them into action. I’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. “I’d never have a day of peace again, John. He told her something about music, the great world outside. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. You did not see me, I know. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. “Ritter’s!” said Ramage to the driver, “Dean Street. " At luncheon, preoccupied in thought, Spurlock did not notice the pallor on Ruth's cheeks or the hunted look in her eyes. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder.
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