" The Wastrel tried to reach Ruth's lips. Wait a little; rest. It may be well, therefore, before proceeding farther, to describe it more minutely. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. Let me go my own way towards them. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street.
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