“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. You yourself, I am sure, recognize how impossible you have made it for me now to do anything of the sort. Winifred's face had a thoroughly amiable look. So, by way of gaining time, he resolved to question him further. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently.
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