To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. Well, after all, he seemed to be turning the subject. But nobody drinks on my island unless I offer it, which is seldom.
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