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“Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. Pardon what I have said, Madam. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply. Wild. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. He was an imaginative young man. The mere fact that he was there in the train alongside her, helping her, sitting opposite to her in the dining-car, presently sleeping on a seat within a yard of her, made her heart sing until she was afraid their fellow passengers would hear it. When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. "The Wastrel seemed to take it all right.
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