It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Capes would come to these teas; he evidently liked to come, and he would appear in the doorway of the preparation-room, a pleasing note of shyness in his manner, hovering for an invitation. You must be misinformed, Mr. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room.
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