But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. ’ The smile vanished. Her little white hand stole across the table. A conviction that her sister’s words were true had from the first possessed her. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness.
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