It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. "Oh, I've read that!" Spurlock had heard distinctly enough all of this odd conversation; but until the spinster's reference to the family album, no phrase had been sufficient in strength of attraction to break the trend of his own unhappy thoughts. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. The river, the big buildings on the north bank, Westminster, and St.
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