We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. CHAPTER XIV. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. But still she knew they were not right, and at times they became a horrible obsession as of something waiting for her round the corner. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. He began to tell me something—and stopped. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort.
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