He lost control of the machine, was upset and nearly killed. “But your sister?” he asked. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. That there would eventually be a lover Ruth knew; and she waited his appearance upon the scene, waited with an impatience which was both personal and literary. Yes—as he would have liked. The same old lines and verses, over and over, until there had come times when shrieking would have relieved her. ’ ‘Dear me.
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