” Chapter XXXII SIX MONTHS AFTER Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. "What did the old fellow judge from, eh, Joan?" asked he. Ann Veronica glanced at the mirror to discover a flushed and dishevelled disorder. “Where have you been! If Sheila finds out, she’ll kill you!” She summoned a few tears to elicit sympathy from him. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here. They watched the chimpanzees in the new apes’ house, and admired the gentle humanity of their eyes—“so much more human than human beings”—and they watched the Agile Gibbon in the next apartment doing wonderful leaps and aerial somersaults. But you had better know the truth to start with.
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