“Get me some brandy and my bag. Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. A fever of shame ran through her being. Throwing down the pencil, she snatched up a piece of India-rubber, and exclaiming,—"It isn't at all like him! it isn't half handsome enough!" was about to efface the sketch, when Thames darted into the room.
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