Voilà tout. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. And at the sight something leaped within her. “I do mean that,” she declared. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. They’ll know.
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