He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “Dyed!” “And your figure?” “One’s corsetière arranges that. “You do look really nice. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. “Yes I did. ‘Like a vision she were. The vengeance of the assailants did not stop here. ‘Allow me. .
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