“A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. . His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. He heard me; but he never came in to ask what was the matter. " O'Higgins emptied an inside pocket—and purposely let the battered photograph fall to the ground. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last.
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