At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner. Shortly Ruth and Spurlock took the way home. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. He waited. The period of repression was over. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. He has no imagination, no real generosity.
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