‘Precisely. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. ‘Don’t be silly. "I am glad you think that," she replied. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. But it would serve.
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