" "Done!" cried the old sailor. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. ’ ‘Eh bien, what then?’ Emile sidled closer. " Ruth stood with drawn brows; she was trying to recall. The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas.
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