Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. ‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French.
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