“How unkind!” she exclaimed. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. “YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. Ruth flashed in and out of the sunshine; and he took note of the radiant nimbus above her head each time the sunshine touched her hair. “Go on!” “You know—in Paris they coupled my name with some one’s—an Englishman’s. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. "I believe he is conscious," she answered.
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