" "There you are, just as I said. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it.
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