Ruth stared into the painted face, now sundrily cracked by the coursing tears. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. “I do not know whether to wish you success or not. “Forgive me,” he said. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle.
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