After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night. He was alarmed when she returned to the stage and her eyes passed over him in the audience. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. . ’ The door opened and Saling entered again.
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