***** Ruth and the doctor returned to the hotel at four. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. Annabel looked up and down the empty street, and then turned to her sister. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. She stepped into his arms.
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