Without betraying the slightest confusion, or making a single remark, he quietly resumed his seat. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. ‘You do not use your head, Emile,’ she said flatly. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery. "What's the matter?" repeated Mrs.
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