Annabel shook her head. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. It’s no good.
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