The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song.
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