She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. She admired and rather pitied him, and she was unfeignedly grateful to him. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you. "How so?" asked Wild, curiously. Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page.
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