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It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. “Can you not understand? It is of no use your taking my identity and all the burden of my iniquities upon your dear shoulders if I am to be recognized the moment I show my face in London. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it. “She has improved her style,” someone declared. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. You ought to have had better advice two years ago. I thought one had only to take it by the throat. Sebastianus claimed to have met her back in Mantua after the betrothal. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. It forbids—all sorts of things. Mr. B. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too.
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