I’m rather scornful. "I haven't worn anything else in weeks. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. “There’s no end of things I’d like to talk over with you. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. Then, as Ramage readjusted himself in a corner, he remarked: “These young people shoot up, Stanley. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now.
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