Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. Strange, I could never learn her history. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. A loud buzz of curiosity circulated among the domestics; some of whom— especially the females—leaned forward to obtain a peep at the culprit.
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