She stepped on to the pavement almost before him, and his blood turned almost to ice as he saw that she was not alone. As the novel grew Ruth was astonished to see herself enter and dominate it: sometimes as she actually was, with all her dreams reviewed—as if he had caught her talking in her sleep. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. My garden-close would be a better thing than that. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. Besides, she had admitted her identity. It may bring us together again.
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