“It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. You are very lovely, Ruth. Not at all. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. And the way he and the other men looked at her! The desire was plain on their faces, so many noblemen reduced to their simplest elements! They looked at her sideways, they looked at her backside, scanning her blue eyes and even looking right into her face. .
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