If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. “I think she would,” she decided. Ruth's mind was fertile soil; for a long time to come it would be something of a hothouse: green things would spring up and blossom overnight. It did not seem quite fair. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers.
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