She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. "Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Gosse must now fight with his back to the altar, and a dais at his heels. Once more he begged; but as Ruth only repeated her sharp command, he spun about and raced toward the jungle. . “Don’t think so,” Drummond answered.
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