But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. I presume that you have been living alone?” She sighed gently. Fate has two methods of procedure—the sudden and the long-drawn-out. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough.
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