The idea of Ruth as a talisman against misfortune—which he now recognized as a sick man's idea— faded as his appreciation of the absurd reasserted itself. It slid off flimsily. " "Thank God for that!" cried Wood, heartily. I have only just left Wych Street. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “I am fairly well known here. “Dare!” she said.
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