His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. He seemed to be about to move toward her. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. “Let me get you some water, Annabel.
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