Even in this dread moment Ruth was conscious of a pathetic interest in the scattering pencils. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. It’s all right. To receive him here afterwards would be most repugnant to me. "Rot, weren't they?" "No. “I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment.
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