So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. "He must have gone this way," muttered Blueskin. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron.
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