When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. "Go!" said Lady Trafford; "it is my last request. She looked and felt like a fairy princess. Those awful chairs!" After dinner the spinsters proceeded to inscribe their accustomed quota of postcards, and Ruth was left to herself. Through a blur of tears Ruth followed the rocking light until it vanished. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave.
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