Ruth and Spurlock separated, the one embarrassed, the other utterly dumfounded. “Why?” he asked, suavely. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. A maidservant held the front door open. I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. "Alone?" "Not exactly, Sir.
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